Shards
by Cybertronic Purgatory
Summary: Morinth/f!Shepard. Recruited onto the Normandy, Morinth finds herself faced with the inherent ennui of starships. As the path into a future of her own making opens up, she looks back on her life, of four hundred years living up to the myth of the Ardat-Yakshi. And as it turns out, that's just who Shepard is in need of, for the battlefield and beyond.
1. Chapter 1

_"Let everything happen to you:  
Beauty and terror.  
Just keep going. No feeling is final." _

_— _Rainier Maria Rilke_, Go to the Limits of Your Longing_

* * *

_._

_._

_._

_Time allotted to us is finite and always in opposition of our lives_, or so Morinth reasoned when she calculated the amount of years behind and ahead of her as she fled from the unyielding force in pursuit. Given enough time, Samara –_ mother_ – would succumb to the one force no one managed to avoid: the ravages of countless minutes tallied together to break down one's flesh and mind. She was bound to die, a comfort that kept Morinth going. She counted the centuries, and would soon have been able to start numbering it in mere decades, were it not for the human female pushing through the biotic whirlwind tearing her Omega apartment apart.

The horror of betrayal graced mother's face as her arm was twisted behind her back and all the mass effect fields faded. Shepard must have known the exact nerve points to press on to disable an asari's biotics, because despite Samara's twitching fingers nothing materialized.

Shepard looked at Morinth, her blue eyes narrowed. Her lips moved. "This is my choice," she said, voice strong and clear, far removed from the husky whisper Morinth had been listening to during the evening. A voice that brokered no threat or questioning.

"You will regret this," Samara said, closing her eyes.

It was not like Morinth needed more of an invitation.

Hitting Samara with a biotic punch in the chest, the justicar was sent flying along the floor, gasping for air as her head scraped on the hard surface. One side of her ribcage sagged noticeably as Morinth crossed the floor and straddled the older asari, pushing her knee against that sore point as she put one hand on Samara's throat.

For a split second, she simply stayed in that position, feeling the impending freedom breathing down her neck. Under her hand was the rhythm of a frantic pulse and a terrified heart, yet her mother's eyes maintained their indifferent coldness.

A loveless gaze. A loveless mother.

Whatever love once existed between them was long gone, lost to choices and restrictions, to hatred and fear.

"Goodbye, mother," Morinth said with a sneer, raising her fist as the cold blue glow around her fingers intensified. She brought it down with a force that crushed Samara's face, obliterating the head. Blue blood spattered over the floor and Morinth, dripping down her face as she let the biotics dissolve into nothingness.

Leaning back, she studied the mess of bone and skin, the meagre remains of the face she had inherited. She knew perfectly well how to imitate it – it was all about relaxing the mouth and tensing the jaw, and keeping the eyes wide but the brow unfurrowed. She felt her own face involuntarily slide into that state, and she grimaced as she rose up to her feet.

"Thank you," she said, rolling her shoulders. "You have given me more than you possibly imagine."

"There's a name for what I gave you." Shepard stood on the edge of the creeping blood pool, the front tip of her shoes stained with a few drops. Her eyes flickered from the body on the ground to meet Morinth's eyes. "Freedom."

Morinth smiled. "Yes." She eyed the naked arms of Shepard, the outline of muscles more prominent in the constant twilight of Omega shining in through the window. Of course she had recognized the Commander almost instantly for whom she truly was – she would have needed to be an idiot not to. She did not even bother to hide who she was, giving her real name as she crossed her knees in the booth across from Morinth in Afterlife. The words she uttered, the ideas she held up and toyed with, of dark places and dangerously skirting the edge of life and death were spoken with passion. That was no deception.

She felt a sudden, irresistible urge to plunge herself into those terrible depths Shepard was headed for. "Take me with you."

Shepard was taken aback for a second, but smoothed her face and crossed her arms. "Why would I?"

"Because whatever cause has the famed Commander Shepard crawling out of the grave is something I can help with. I am everything my late mother was. More." She inclined her head, studying the curve of Shepard's lips, the ones she a few minutes ago had been moving in to kiss. "_I_ can help_ you_."

Shepard let out a short, abrupt laugh. "Is that so?"

"Try to deny it, but I know what it is you need."

The moment she saw Shepard enter Afterlife, she knew exactly who the human was. There was an... Energy, perhaps, or an aura. Whatever it was, it was unmistakable: Shepard reeked of power and adventure, of dangers and excitement... Of death. Her mere presence spoke of places few ever saw, and then only in their nightmares; her walk was that of someone who knew how to kill a person with a well-aimed kick of her sharp heels.

Shepard was a person Morinth never imagined to meet face-to-face, especially in a place as depraved as Omega. Heroes such as her, hailed and worshipped and called 'saviors', they were not her type. Shepard, as she appeared in the media, came across as an ideal, but in the flesh, it became clear that mere words and images could not capture everything she was.

Flesh was graceful like that. Simple and straightforward. Almost easy.

Shepard put one foot behind the other, lips pressed tightly together. "I don't need someone who can't control their murderous lusts."

"Is that what my mother told you about me?" Morinth flashed her teeth as she smiled broadly. "The fine art of killing requires immense amounts of self-control. You should know. Besides, if it is appearances that concern you, I can imitate my mother exactly." Inhaling deeply, she suppressed the surge of disgust at having to distort her voice to hear that monotonous drone of her mother's, but it came to her flawlessly. "If it pleases you, I can be her."

There was a twitch in Shepard's face, her expression somewhere between mild annoyance and amusement. "You intrigue me, Morinth. Don't push your luck with me, and maybe you will survive."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes." She righted an upturned armchair, sitting down on the plush cushion as she pulled up the side of her ash grey dress. Attached to her hip was a slim black garter with a silver container tucked securely in. Opening it up she pulled out a cigarette and lit up. When she exhaled the first cloud of smoke, she let out a sigh.

There was a strange kind of beauty to how Shepard sucked on the long cigarette, especially to how the smoke curled out of her mouth and around her fingers. "When there is just the two of us, I would prefer if you did not pretend to be your dead mother."

Closing her eyes, Morinth let the veneer of Samara slip off again, relaxing her posture. "Just let me relieve her of her old suit and we can leave. This will be fun."

"You have an interesting definition of fun," Shepard remarked, leaning forward in the seat with the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, watching intently as Morinth returned to the slowly chilling corpse.

"I live for the thrills and excitements. That deep feeling as you stand on the edge of something, the air thick with danger and your skin prickling as you plunge in." Kneeling on the floor, Morinth began the tedious task of pulling the slack limbs free of the skin-tight outfit. "Are you much better?"

Shepard chose not to answer, and Morinth smiled to herself as she worked on freeing the fingers from the gloves. Once the arms were free, she needed only give it a quick yank to free the entire torso, even though the back of it was wet on both sides with blood. The legs gave way easily, but she had to take her time with the shoes, unbuckling each boot from the knee down.

The collar and head jewelry turned out to be more difficult to extract intact, dented and stained, but after digging around in the squishy mess, she got them.

She picked up the suit and accessories, taking it all into the kitchen to let hot water wash the blood away. She gazed at the back of Shepard as she let the tap run, head tilted so that the black hair fell over the backrest in a straight curtain.

A constant cloud of smoke hung over her head, rings exhaled at exact intervals, one hand raised up with a finger poking through the perfect rings. She let it linger there for only a few seconds, swaying it gently where the rings trembled, before wiggling around to dissolve them.

Returning her attention to the suit of armor, Morinth scratched at some of the blood gathered in the soft joints and edges with her nail. Satisfied that there were no major stains left, she turned off the water and shook the suit out, returning to the living room.

Shepard sat up straight in the seat when she heard Morinth approach, omni-tool glowing around her left arm. Morinth merely ignored the threat, spreading the suit out on the couch to dry as she sat down next to it.

They remained silent, Shepard putting out her last cigarette on the heel of her shoe and dropping it to the floor before resuming typing something on her omni-tool interface.

Morinth, bored by the silence and waiting, turned her attention out the window. She would miss the din and vibrance of Omega, the one place she kept returning to. The apartment was an inheritance from a turian mercenary, a gift he left to her two hundred years ago, and the only solid point she had in the galaxy. It was rare that she could stay there for long, Samara always quick to pick up her trail and chase her onwards.

It was not home, at least not exactly as she'd like to call it, but it came as close as anything ever could.

Home, true home, was in Serrice, in an apartment long since sold and occupied by others. It was a place lost, where mother and father wept behind closed doors. Where Rila and Falere sat staring ahead of them in their rooms, surrounded by boxes filled with their belongings. It was her own room as she stood in the middle of it, feeling the refusal rise like bile in her throat.

Omega was different from Thessia – a dark shadow almost, so far removed from the perfect arches and high towers that gleamed in both sunlight and moonlight. There were no natural sources of water on the former mining colony, nor did the streets overflow with green growth and gratuitous art. Omega was gritty and dirty, echoing with all kinds of promises and despairs. The humidity clung to ones skin and the hum of its dark heart never ceased.

In the apartment overlooking the central district, she collected mementos of past lovers and victims, turning it into a museum. When she came to visit she unpacked the deliveries, arranging them neatly on shelves before she wandered the rooms, blowing away the dust and soaking in memories. There were fine pieces of art crafted by delicate hands and guns wielded by callous warlords; dueling swords and chess games, moth-eaten dresses and withering books with the pages falling out. Time took its toll on things.

In the mirror, she watched herself look exactly the way she did when she was forty-three, nothing changing. Time struggled to move her.

Satisfied with the level of dryness in the armor, she began removing her own. Nimble fingers moved across latches and zippers of the tight dark suit she wore, letting it fall to the floor piece by piece as she stripped down to her underwear. She felt a mild frustration that Shepard did not even look up from her omni-tool, the golden light illuminating her face as her eyes moved as rapidly as her fingers.

Shaking Samara's suit one last time, she stepped into it. There was a moistness to it, a sticky feeling of sweat and blood, but it bothered Morinth little. What did churn her stomach in disgust was the fragrant perfume in her nostrils each time she moved, bursts of scents she had not smelled since Thessia. It reminded her of a warm embrace, of tepid evenings in the grassy parks and the terrace of the apartment. Of crying because she skinned her knees. Of clawing herself out of that embrace when her genetics determined the path she had to take.

She removed the bra she wore, straightening her back and rolling the shoulders back as she fit them into the top part of the suit. The wet edges chafed against her skin and left little dark blue marks on her skin.

"Come here," Shepard demanded. Letting the arms hang free she did as told. The Commander held out her omni-tool, other hand supporting her chin as she gazed up at Morinth's naked torso. "Put your fingers on there."

Morinth pressed down her digits on the interface, feeling a warm buzz tingling through the skin for a second before a sting followed. "Ow," she said simply, rubbing the fingertips together as Shepard removed the omni-tool.

"Over-writing Samara's access data with yours." Shepard glanced again at Morinth's legs as she remained in front of her, pursing her mouth in displeasure as she lingered on the thighs. "Samara had wider hips than you do."

"She birthed three children. A feat I will never replicate."

As Morinth pulled at the suit and slid the arms in, she felt how perfectly it moulded to her form. The fingers fit in exactly, and the joint creases just right against the inside of her elbows.

Shepard hummed as she looked Morinth over, but it was not an appreciating stare. Morinth could tell the difference – no hunger, no intensity like the gaze held in the booth in Afterlife. Just assessing, evaluating. Doubting.

She spread her legs in a wider stance, and Shepard nodded. "Better. Barely noticeable now."

"I told you, I make a perfect double for my deceased mother."

"No," Shepard said with a smirk as she deactivated the omni-tool and stretched her legs out, "you don't. Close, but not quite."

Morinth smiled coldly. There was an infuriating quality to the woman before her, all power and contained aggression as she barbed each sentence uttered with a mild insult. While she failed to see the necessity, it was amusing nonetheless... Up to a point.

A point which was steadily approaching.

The final pieces – collar and forehead jewelry – were easily adjusted, but the collar itself weighed heavier than she expected. Thicker. It felt like a chain wrapped around her neck.

"I am ready to leave when you are."

"What about the body?" Shepard nodded in the direction of the limp form of Samara on the floor. "It'll start to stink up your pretty little place soon."

Morinth was no novice, and therefore it annoyed her that it had slipped her mind to dispose of her mother. Then again, having another person present after a kill was rare, but everything about the circumstances were odd. A woman – a_ savior and hero_ – who kept trying to provoke some kind of reaction in Morinth as she dressed herself in her mother's still-warm clothes. The fact that the dead body on her floor was not a lover but her mother had caused a surge of intoxicating emotions that she found hard to do anything but ride.

It was like being high, and she was soaring in the air on freedom... Just as Shepard was trying to burst that cloud.

Not to mention the gnawing hunger – not for food or drink, but that deeper growl of yearning for passion and extremes, of wilderness in all things, of pinning Shepard to the wall and taking what they had been building up to all night. She pushed those feelings to the side. There was no use driving herself insane with lust.

"Open the balcony door," Morinth said, and watched as Shepard slowly peeled herself from the leather, leaving a few drops of sweat on the smooth surface. Her hips swung as she went to the large glass panel, and Morinth kept her eye at the curve as the thin fabric of her dress shifted form with the movements.

Stooping down she slid one arm under Samara's waist and knees, flinging the body over her shoulder. It weighed less than she expected as she strode onto the balcony and hoisted the body over the edge with little ceremony.

"Her death really isn't bothering you," Shepard remarked from Morinth's side, watching the blue body falling down into the deep darkness of Omega, narrowly missing cars and flashing signs jutting out from the buildings. There was a degree of restrained surprise in Shepard's voice, and Morinth felt comfortable with that.

"Why would it?" she said, letting her eyes move from following the trajectory of the deceased and instead observing the glittering skyline, so full of promise and deception. Just the air out there, rife with street food vendors, grit and grease and engine expulsions, made her feel refreshed. "She was hateful and unable to just let things go."

"Judging from your little collection of memorabilia, letting go isn't a strong family trait."

There it was again, the sharp edge to Shepard which Morinth never knew when to expect. It left her equally reeling and unnerved.

"You're looking at it from the wrong perspective," Morinth maintained as they went back inside and the balcony door slid shut behind them. "But I doubt you would understand."

"Try me on that sometime. I might surprise you." Shepard suddenly let out an exasperated noise and went over to the sink, holding the skirt up under the tap as she began scrubbing vigorously to remove a blood stain.

Tongue wetting her lips, Morinth resisted the urge to provoke Shepard back. Even if they had not laid it out clear yet, it was obvious enough for her to see. She was playing in the weaker position for now, because she wanted something. She preferred the positions reversed, and there a small window of opportunity presented itself, ripe for the taking.

One hand on each side of the counter, she pinned Shepard, keeping a centimeter's width between them as she leaned forward. With the tip of her nose nudging against the sweaty locks at the back of her neck, she closed her eyes. All she needed was to be close enough, and she could reach out and feel the neural network of the being in front of her. Eye-contact made it easier, but she did not know what to make of how Shepard broke that connection when she attempted it earlier.

Eyes wide open, Shepard's breath hitched: she felt it too. The way Morinth was creeping along the edge of her consciousness, a pleasant suggestion, a whisper in the dark depths of her mind. At least, that was how Morinth imagined they all felt her in these moments. It was how her prey described it to her when she asked them how it felt. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, they murmured about how wonderful she felt inside them, her tendrils sinking deep before putting out their spark.

"Tell me what you want of me," Morinth whispered against the curve of Shepard's ear. "Tell me what you want to do with me."

"Well," Shepard said huskily, one wet hand sliding up Morinth's arm, "first of all…" Spinning around quickly, she twisted Morinth's wrist so hard that the asari snapped out of the state, the pain overwriting everything else. She sank down on her knees even as Shepard tugged at her arm, holding it above her head at an angle where she was sure the bones were about to break. Shepard jerked it roughly. "Don't ever do that to me again."

Morinth glared up at Shepard, letting the Commander see her eyes returning to their normal pale blue state. Once they did, the grip on her wrist eased up and she pulled herself free.

"You fear me."

"No," Shepard said. "But you'd be wise to show some fear towards me." She held out her hand in an offer to help Morinth up from the floor.

She did not take it straight away. "I am the Ardat-Yakshi, and you are telling me to tremble before you?"

"I died once, and here I am. That, if anything, should give you pause to think." Grabbing the arm she was just a minute ago close to shattering, she yanked Morinth up from the floor with little gentleness and slammed her up against the wall. "If I were you, I'd think twice before crossing me. Maybe thrice."

"But you are not me."

"No." Shepard smirked, all harshness melting out of her as she walked to the front door, swiping something from the floor as she did. "Let's go."

Before closing the door, Morinth surveyed the apartment. It struck her, as it always did when she left, that she could not be sure she would ever see it again, but there was never a stir of emotion at that thought. That was how she lived: in constant motion from place to place, living a transitory existence as defined by pure need to survive. Yet that need was now… Altered. The change caused by Shepard was bound to be interesting.

Door locked, they began walking, Shepard sometimes falling behind to watch how Morinth moved or turning her head over her shoulders to observe it. If she was satisfied with what she saw, she did not express it.

The cold, wet front of her skirt clung to the inside of Shepard's thighs as they passed through Omega towards the upper docks, drawing the gaze of many as it slid upwards now and again before falling loose. Shepard seemingly cared little for the attention, her sharp eyes and serious expression quickly silencing any unwanted approach.

She was a fine little mystery. Maybe Morinth would find the time to crack her open.

"Still think this will be fun?" she asked as they stood in the airlock, the decontamination cycle beginning.

"Of course," Morinth replied in Samara's emotionless voice.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Study me as much as you like, you will never know me, for I differ a hundred ways from what you see me to be_." — Rumi

* * *

Morinth followed the curve of Miranda's naked body in the mirror of the shared bathroom as the operative stood in the shower. Water cascaded down her back, the dark hair slick against her skin as she moved her feet nimbly over the white tiles, humming a muted tune to herself.

The crew of the Normandy were definitely a fascinating group of mismatched heroes and villains and every role in-between, all gathered together for a vague purpose. She had only briefly gone over the files Shepard forwarded, picking up on a general idea:_ Collectors, colonists, Cerberus_. Some supposed connection to the geth attack on the Citadel that Shepard helped repel, and concerns about the Reapers. The bottom line was clear enough: a threat to all life in the galaxy. That, if anything, made it a worthwhile cause to pursue, though Morinth saw it as a quick ticket into the thick of the wildest and darkest places of the galaxy. Shepard was in it for the destination, and Morinth for the journey itself.

Miranda threw her head back in the shower, fingers massaging her scalp in circles as she worked up a lather. A trail of white foam dripped down her body.

Morinth found the crew far more interesting to read than some officious files filled with numbers and dissection reports; such a wild mix of motives and desires, the air onboard rife with tension and conflict before half of them even woke up. Much of that resentment lingering in the mess hall she traced back to that very person in the shower who couldn't seem to care less.

There was a way to how her back arched, the way she derived a certain kind of pleasure from the hot water that struck Morinth as... Exploitable.

She lowered her eyes when the doors opened and Kelly entered, her red hair a tangled mess with sheet marks on her cheek. "Good morning," she said sleepily, yawning into the back of her hand as she leaned forward over the sink, splashing cold water on her face.

"To you too." Morinth returned her focus to her own reflection, discreetly trying to see if there was any discrepancy in her presentation as Samara while she brushed her teeth. She had already drawn on the birthmark on the chest before anyone else came in, but she kept thinking something remained off, yet what exactly kept eluding her.

She spat out the last of the toothpaste and neatly put the brush back, then took a moment to adjust the stiff collar of the suit.

"I heard about what happened on Omega," Kelly said in a low voice, brushing out her hair with long strokes. Their eyes met in the mirror. "Having to kill your own daughter... I can't even imagine."

"It is not an act one can take pleasure in," Morinth said, biting back the urge to smile.

Kelly hummed. "If you want to talk about it, I'm always here."

"A kind offer, but I am quite alright."

Shepard entered, and Kelly's face immediately lit up. "Commander! Water pipes still broken in your cabin?"

Shepard nodded, taking up the space between Morinth and Kelly as she leaned close to the mirror, angling her head from side to side. With Kelly distracted by Miranda wanting to discuss a matter as she emerged from the shower, Shepard looked sharply at Morinth. A thinly veiled threat, a warning sparking in those intensely blue eyes, a message easy to interpret._ Stay away._

Morinth almost scoffed. Nowhere had she been able to escape the presence of Shepard. After a sleepless night listening to the rhythmic hum of the Normandy's drive core, she had walked around the ship, surveying the spaces she would be bound to for the foreseeable future. A cage filled with fascinating people and cameras tracking her movement, the Cerberus logo plastered on each empty surface to remind each crew member of where their loyalties were meant to be.

And the very moment she had set foot in the CIC, Shepard appeared from the elevator, coffee cup in hand as she leaned over the galaxy map. Shepard did not even look over her shoulder, zooming in and out between star systems as she plotted a path between relays. Her presence was enough for Morinth to get the message.

She had turned and slipped into the armory, where she bumped into a man oozing with respect towards her. "I fixed that glitch in your assault rifle," he said, hand almost flying up in a military salute. Still, the fact that the motion was so deeply ingrained in him almost struck her as cute. He passed the gun over to her and she looked down the sightings, running her fingers over the smooth side surface. An unusual design, lighter than she was used to, but it had been years since she fired anything but a Revenant.

Jacob fumbled as she handed it back, muttering about how he was working hard to find a design right for her. He went on about some design specifications he'd extracted from an Eclipse datapad,_ but it was being relayed via Cerberus command and they could take a week or two to test and approve the design and then there was the matter of assembling it_...

She listened to his onslaught of words for a while, the way his lips moved and eyes flitted around telling her everything she needed to know about how he saw her. He bought the disguise. He had no doubts about the authenticity, but what he worried about was what she appeared to be: a justicar, a powerful biotic, a Code which could demand his death in a heartbeat.

Of course, even there Shepard had found a way to saunter in and casually ask Jacob about the new SMG and how it held up capacity-wise. Morinth escaped, but not before Shepard said '_I'll catch up with you later, Samara_'.

The name grated the worst. And she kept following. The longest – and she had counted – Morinth ever got alone with another crew member never amounted to more than seven minutes.

In the bathroom, Shepard prodded her right cheek, mouth hanging open with a toothbrush dangling out. A string of white saliva dripped down her chin, but she apparently cared little, completely caught up in examining some invisible scratch or dent in her smooth skin.

Feeling that the bathroom was getting crowded, Morinth made her excuses. Kelly paused in her actions as she passed by on the way out, and the green eyes followed her as she left.

She would have to watch herself around that one – too keen eyes, for one – but another interesting human nonetheless. Those with a degree in psychology tended to be, with their abilities to deflect and observe and draw accurate conclusions from scraps of information. They were particularly fun to pry apart, piece by piece, using their own sharp powers on themselves. Nothing like breaking a person on their own flaws.

Pausing by the elevator, she felt a sharp stab in her hand. The cut she received in the stand-off with her mother ached painfully under the constricting fabric of the glove, and she headed for the medbay to have it looked at.

Chakwas received her with a solemnity that seemed uncharacteristic judging by the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes, but word travelled fast on the small ship. Everyone seemed to know about how three people entered an apartment and only two came out alive, but no one knew the truth at least. All she had to do was act the stoic justicar, unwilling to betray a single shred of emotion. Easy enough, but dull.

She would have to recycle the same phrases over and over in the coming days – i_t was necessary, there is no need for comforting words, it was the only just action_ – and she was already growing bored of having to speak like her mother. Thankfully, her mother always had a nature of being the quiet and withdrawn one, so at least there would be little reason to speak in that monotonous drawl for extended periods.

Chakwas disinfected the swollen cut with deft hands, pulling out a few minute pieces of shrapnel lodged deep under the skin. As she worked, Morinth studied the people currently eating breakfast in the mess hall.

The human female Jack, covered in tattoos and with a wild fear in her eyes, ate while standing in the kitchen, bent over the bowl of cereal in a guarding position. Each time someone approached the fridge her head snapped up and eyes narrowed, the full red lips distorting into a quiet snarl until they left. Far too openly vulnerable for Morinth's taste, obvious in her aggressions and territorial streak, but at least she could provide some entertainment. Like a stressed animal confined in too small a space. One could easily drive her into a frenzy with just a little poke here or there, and she would lash out accordingly.

She filed that idea away for later, once she found out the exact sore spots of that frail one. No point in striking unless done with absolute precision.

While Shepard had strictly forbidden her from 'engaging' with the crew with the obvious implication that any sort of seduction was out of the question, she had not drawn up any other boundaries. Besides, what she did not see would not hurt her.

At the mess hall table sat a turian and human, both with scars marring their faces. She recognized Zaeed Massani – a well-known name in the Terminus, after all – but the turian's name slipped her mind. Far more interesting was the rawness to the left side of his face, the pink flesh peeking out from the under the bandages. Scars came with battles, came with stories of danger and experience with staring death in the face. That, she could appreciate.

Chakwas applied a light coating of medi-gel to close up the wound; it stung against the sore and exposed flesh. As it sealed, the doctor wrapped some gauze around the wrist and then let go, giving some brief recommendations with her back turned as she started making notes on the computer.

When Morinth emerged into the mess again, Shepard was there. The message still hung between them, and she knew that the Commander made an effort to watch her every movement. If that was what she wanted, then she would receive just that.

Adding a weight to the swing in her hips as she walked, she made sure to brush her finger against Shepard's arm as she passed. Just the briefest of touches as she passed, heading to the observatory where she could get some privacy from the crew and Shepard.

All she had to do in there was pretend to be Samara – superficially. Nothing else had to be adopted – no need to think in her mother's rigid and righteous patterns, no need to make her voice sound like a lecturing matriarch. Settling down on the floor, she took up the meditative pose her mother used to do in the early mornings in Serrice. What Morinth did not like to admit was that her knowledge of Samara's behavior as a justicar, as predictable as it was, lacked in the finer details. She had considered asking Shepard for some information to guide her, but that would be admitting that she was not a pitch-perfect imitation in every little aspect. That, her pride would not take.

Except everything about her mother bored Morinth to tears. Staring out at the vastness of space quickly grew dull, and she began to shape biotic spheres between the palms of her hands, shrinking and expanding them to stave off the doldrums. To entertain herself, she began mentally going through the crew she had seen so far, sorting them according to amusements to be had and the games to be played.

Miranda: perfection, at least superficially. Morinth wondered how far that penetrated into her personality, because perfection never ceased to be accompanied by brutally cruel flaws. She just needed to find them, and then she would be able to get under Miranda's skin. Though the human appeared harsh and unfriendly, officious to a point of alienating the ones she meant to lead, there was a melting point to everyone. Those like Miranda tended to keep that well under wraps.

She let the biotic sphere in her hands collapse before forming a new, denser one.

All she had to do, over and over again, was to find each of their weaknesses as she repeated the same motions of impersonation. The mask was as frustratingly constricting as it served to hide her. All she could do was play the game in her mind, because even there, she felt Shepard's eyes on her.

Rolling her head back, she noted where the cameras where. One above the door frame and another in the corner opposite the grand couch. She gave the room a few quick scans as she moved her torso around, but found no more. Bugs were a different matter, but far easier to fix.

Letting the biotic sphere expand into a burst of flaring light, she quickly sent off two tiny bursts of energy in the direction of each camera, blowing them up. Barely had the biotic energy dispersed before her message alert lit up on the omni-tool. _Missed one. – S_.

"Touché," Morinth said out loud, closing down the interface as she resumed the meditative position. Biotic energy sparked from her fingertips, jumping between them as she thought of Shepard and her antagonizing smile. There was an oddity about it: a way in which it never quite affected the right side of her face, creating a lopsided impression. For that matter, she never parted her lips when smiling, keeping them pressed together... And the smiles themselves flashed by briefly and then died, a twitch in her nose. As if any expression of joy _hurt_.

It struck Morinth that it was an indication of injury, deep-rooted from years ago. Even if it had healed and the visible scars were gone, the phantom pains must still be there, keeping her face in check from being too visibly expressive.

_The crew may be off-limits, but…_ The biotic pulses between her hands calmed down. _What about Shepard herself?_ The empty palms turned upward as she smiled at the darkness and stars outside the observation window. Anyone could be manipulated, all she needed was an entry point to start the breakdown with.


	3. Chapter 3

"_And no one can ever figure out what you want, and you won't tell them_."  
– A Primer for Small Weird Loves, Richard Siken

* * *

1805 CE

* * *

When the first rays of sunlight creeped over the horizon, the tar-black doors of the monastery opened. The creaking wood silenced the gathered crowd, a mass of people thronging close together, all wearing furs and hoods to keep warm in the arctic climate. A collective shudder passed through them all as the first sister emerged, a flimsy sleeve-less robe her only protection from the weather. She must have been the newest, Morinth concluded, seeing the way her skin prickled as she stepped onto the snowy path lined with torches – the cold still hurt her.

The festival, dating back to the early days of offspring Athame worship, had originated on Thessia and then continued to spread in the intricate network of faiths before slowly trickling out. No other monastery in the asari colonies practiced it anymore – the dangers deterred many from even seeking out the secluded places to dedicate themselves to the extreme shows of faith, except for the one last remnant, tucked away on a remote and unexploited world. They were a dying breed, those sisters of absolute dedication.

It seemed inevitable that Morinth would find herself drawn there.

The flames reflected in the golden aegis covering her chest as she moved, one slow step at a time, mouth a tight line as she breathed through her nose. For each step the breathing became harsher and sharper, a faint tremble to her throat as the toes sunk into the crisp snow. Her eyes widened as she came to the edge of the shore, navigating the slippery stones without stumbling before coming to a halt at the waterline.

Another sister filed out of the monastery, and then another until they all stood at the shoreline, suppressing shivers and carefully controlling their breathing. All equally underdressed with the gleaming metal around their throats – all beautiful and blue, skin covered in goosebumps and nipples hard through the thin fabric. Together they shed the robes, letting them drift away on the wind, a dozen white scraps of fabrics floating away towards the sea.

Morinth held her breath when they raised their hands together.

The glow began in the first sister's hands, slowly spreading to the others until they were all engulfed in the biotic field. For a minute they just maintained it, balancing it on the tips of their fingers, knees shaking under the sheer force. Then they moved as one, slamming it down on the solid surface of the river.

A massive crack opened up, the noise echoing between the high mountain ranges on either side, and the biotic energy kept streaming from them as they moved in beautiful unison. Working together, they sent pulses of energy up and down the stream, widening the dark crack as water seeped up. The cacophony of breaking ice filled the valley with many of the onlookers gritting their teeth as it became close to unbearable.

As one single entity, they all stopped at the same precise second. Without allowing themselves a break, two of them lifted the first sister with their biotics, raising her high into the air above the river. Suspended there, she looked upstream, her eyes wide as she saw what Morinth could only hear. The roar of the frozen river unleashed.

The flood crashed forth underneath the sister, ice churning in the wild maelstrom of icy water. Just as the water surged, the level rising and creeping up on the banks, the sisters let go and let her drop straight into the water. She fell in silence, aiming her body to dive straight into it. The crowd turned as one to follow her as she flowed along with the water, and from the elevated viewpoint they saw as she emerged between huge chunks of ice before submerging again. She rode the currents in complete silence until she came to the river's mouth, where she swam for the shore, struggling against the pull to not be swept out to sea.

When she crawled up on land, weak and trembling but alive, the crowd began applauding and whistling so loud that it nearly overpowered the furious waters. Even Morinth joined in, clapping slowly a few times as she watched the sister catch her breath.

The next sister plunged into the water and the observers turned to look at her precarious journey, but Morinth remained focused on the one shivering on the shore. Steam billowed from her frozen skin as she stumbled the long path back up. The biotic barrier she tried to draw up to protect herself from the icy winds failed to stay strong, and she was left with nothing but a purple spark in her hands.

"Such a sad way to go." An asari, wrapped in white furs and with a scarf obscuring most of her face, sidled up alongside Morinth. "Here she has conquered the spring flood, but no one prepared her for this bit. The walk back home, where no one will help her."

"She will make it," Morinth said, even as the second sister to traverse the churning waters passed the first one by.

"She's not dedicated enough," the asari replied, almost smugly.

Morinth leaned forward on the protective railing of the viewpoint. The sister kept walking on the path, slow and steady, the weight of the aegis obvious as she kept pushing at it with her hands. Then she quickened her pace in a sudden burst of energy, taking longer strides, an aggressive snarl gracing her face.

No one else saw as she entered the final stretch but the two of them.

"Look at that."

The sister seemed furious as she came to the black gates, frozen patches of ice on her shoulders and along her spine. Her mouth was all bared teeth and lips curled in anger as she disappeared into the sanctity of the monastery. The last Morinth saw of her that year was the curve of her ass and hips, the turquoise coloring of her skin paler than when she first emerged.

A blood-curling scream rose from the torrents, and Morinth's head snapped around: a sister caught in a whirlpool, shouting out her desperation and fear as the waters frothed around her. A chunk of ice hit against her and dislodged her from the water's hold, but she kept crying and screaming as she flowed along.

"There's one every decade," the asari commented on her side. Morinth studied the profile from the corner of her eye. All she could make out was the sharp slope of a nose and full cheeks, but even the color of her eyes was difficult to determine in the dusky twilight of the river valley. "One who breaks her vow of silence, losing her composure to these wild waters. One who gets shamed by her own weakness. Pity."

"Do you come here just to watch them fail?"

The asari – definitely older, there was something to her deep voice – laughed. "I come for many reasons. The spring flood celebration has been slowly dying out. Three hundred years ago the crowds filled up both sides of the banks, and now we fit on a single platform."

"Fewer believe in Athame."

"Wrong. They are far too civilized for these brutal displays. There's nothing beautiful about it, is there? Just a few crazy nuns flinging themselves up against certain death."

"They have faith."

"No. Faith has nothing to do with it. This is something else entirely."

"Then what are you getting at?" Morinth said irritably.

"You'll tell me in due time." She tugged at the leather of her gloves, preparing to leave. "Something tells me you and I will meet here again."

Morinth did not care then, being just fifty and meandering in aimless circles, trying to keep discreet and away from notice. There was no plan to her journey, no goal or purpose other than the simple trick of avoiding detection and savoring freedom. Yet even there, stowed away in the remoteness of the arctic circle on a planet thriving with life elsewhere, she knew freedom was nothing if she was being hounded every step of the way.

Watching the last sisters survive the river-run without emitting a single sound, she broke away from the dispersing crowd and trudged the thousand steps back up the mountain slope to the village where she was staying. In the sleek buildings built into the rock wall, she shed layer after layer as warmth returned to her limbs, one by one. With the change in temperature came the hunger, but she strung it out, waiting. Instinct guided her, and so far, it had never steered her wrong. _Just wait._ And she did.

On the third day, at the point where the need was a mere buzz, she found the failed sister in the bar. She appeared far different with clothes on, back straight and erect yet with the shoulders sagging. She sat at a table alone in front of the enormous windows overlooking the valley's splendor, tugging at the collar hemline. Around her neck were small indentations, the skin a shade paler than her face and hands. The other guests gave her a wide berth, but Morinth went straight for her. They shared drinks, but each smile the sister drew up was exhausted and distant. Her voice was frail and hoarse, fighting to wrap her tongue around syllables as she spoke.

It was a simple catch. Easy, because the icy river had already broken her. All Morinth had to do was piece her back together long enough to satisfy her needs. Her will broke under Morinth's thumb, but all resolve was gone by the time she came to Morinth's bed. It was just a matter of pushing the final stretch, and she surrendered almost willingly with barely any need for suggestion or force.

In bed, she stopped just as Morinth's eyes went black, clothes half undone as she wrapped her legs around Morinth's waist. "Your kind comes here so often," she murmured, her own eyes darkening as she spoke. "I thought you were a myth..."

"Oh, darling. I'm as real as your worst nightmare." Morinth lowered her mouth onto the bared neck. "Tell me that you want me."

"I want you," she said, smiling dumbly, echoing anything Morinth desired.

"Good. Tell me how you wish you could worship me."

The sister took Morinth by the hips, flipping them over in bed. Her expression, so empty and hungry all at once, made Morinth ache with desire. Straddling Morinth, she began to pull at her clothes, moving sensuously to her own rhythm. Hands roaming over her own body, she whispered her praise like an incantation: "I offer you my stomach. I offer you my skin. I give you of my breasts, of my blood. I worship you, Ardat-Yakshi… I worship you with all that I am."

"Then tell me, oh faithful, how you wish to die for me."

The answer made Morinth smile. People were so predictable sometimes.

In the bathroom of rented hotel room, she let the tub fill up with boiling hot water she kissed the ex-sister. Though Morinth could already tell she would be an unfulfilling kill – not being the one who Morinth truly wanted – need was different, and need the failure could satisfy more than well enough.

She helped the sister into the steaming tub, the azure skin blistering on her legs and arms as Morinth ordered her to submerge almost completely. With only her face still above the surface, she melded. The sister began convulsing wildly, sinking below the surface as she was unable to do anything, her mouth open underwater in a quiet scream.

"Sssh," Morinth soothed, stroking her cheek. "Let it take you."

A few bubbles rose up, then the waters stilled. Morinth let go, wiping her hands on the towel. _It wasn't enough_. Without sparing another look she grabbed her coat and left. _It would never be enough._


	4. Chapter 4

"_You think I'm not a goddess?_  
_Try me._  
_This is a torch song._  
_Touch me and you'll burn._" — Margaret Atwood

* * *

Three day cycles spent playing pretend her every waking moment started to get to Morinth. There were only so many recesses of her own mind she wished to retreat into – seeking solace in memories a decidedly weak balm at best, and a potently ruinous affair – but she was not the only one feeling it. The Normandy, zipping between systems in an erratic pattern unsolvable by anyone but Shepard and Lawson, turned the ship into an enclosure of frustrated warriors pacing their allotted spaces. The atmosphere sparked with tension, tempers flaring as the crew refrained from asking the questions they all wanted answers to, while Shepard remained as enigmatic and distant as ever.

Morinth did not know what to make of Shepard, the mysterious human avoiding conversation that went deeper than "pass the salt". And though she said little, she watched even more: following, observing, those inescapable eyes pinning Morinth each time she attempted to learn a bit more about another crew member. Not that they were particularly talkative – most fumbled, shying away from her in a strange fear. Some were bored by her front as Samara, and she could not fault them – she loathed the assumed persona as much herself. The remaining had nothing interesting to say, and bored her.

So she settled into pacing the ship, like the rest of them, staking out the boundaries of the metal can keeping them alive. In the mess hall, crew members cautiously tried to keep up discussions, careful not to sweep over any volatile topics. She discreetly rolled her eyes and moved on, tiring after hearing yet another argument thought out through a drink. In engineering they played cards, gambling for nothing but a few credits, but in the cargo hold, the most anxious of them squared off against each other. Now that she could appreciate.

Morinth watched from the engineering deck, breath fluttering against the window glass as she leaned close to get a better view. Circling each other as they searched for an opening, Jack and Grunt began a new match as Garrus rubbed his neck on the sideline after a failed tussle against the raging krogan. Grunt in particular was a ball of aggression, slamming anyone who dared to spar with him on the floor or head-butting them into the wall. The krogan tried to strike first, charging at Jack with a quickness that almost managed to pin her. She dodged away from his strike, sending him toppling with a biotic punch and quickly following it with another. Grunt hit the floor with a laugh.

Zaeed applauded before he was the one facing off against Jack, and the combatants cycled between each other, taking turns wiping sweat off their brows and drinking water before flinging themselves into the fray again.

"This is pointless," Miranda commented from her side, arms crossed over her chest.

"We all need outlets," Morinth said, her voice not quite striking the right tone she needed to maintain the appearance of Samara. Miranda failed to notice, too busy voicing her discontent to Jacob who stood at her side. He did not listen with the full attention he should have given Miranda, fascinated with watching the combat prowess on display. Morinth felt the same, and kept having to reign herself in as she felt the excitement rising. Her heart pumped faster for each swinging fist and she resorted to biting her tongue whenever someone drew blood. The brute violence was beautiful to behold, their contained frustrations let loose and aimed at someone else. Crude, yes, but still oh so fitting for the mismatched band of soldiers gathered together.

The fun came to end all too soon when Shepard arrived, the bout in session stopping abruptly as they flew apart. Yet instead of chewing them out, she surveyed the scene before turning around. Shepard pointed up at Morinth, lopsided smile on her lips as she gestured for her to come down to spar. Morinth replied with a nod, and Miranda let out an anguished groan of annoyance as Morinth went into the elevator.

"Glad you decided to accept my challenge," Shepard said upon Morinth's arrival, rolling her head back and exposing her delicate neck.

"I will not be merciful," Morinth said as she sauntered across the floor, an eye on the barely visible blue vein running from Shepard's mouth down her throat, visible in the harsh light.

"Neither will I." The biotic projectile shot from her hand but Morinth dodged, dashing to the left as she retaliated with one of her own. Not as swift on her feet, Shepard staggered backwards, trying to shake off the force of the impact. It offered a window of opportunity Morinth did not delay in pouncing upon, closing the distance in a quick burst of movement as she went in for the throat.

To her surprise, Shepard recovered just in time to grab her wrist and use the momentum Morinth had built up against her. With a tug, Morinth was being pulled over Shepard's back and about to be slammed onto the floor when twisted a little, managing to land gracefully on her toes and dance away.

Altering her plan to a far more defensive one, she kept on dodging and evading Shepard's punches. She was less interested in besting the Commander and more keen on figuring out how she fought. Shepard preferred an aggressive style, keeping up pressure as she pushed relentlessly, although not a careless one. When Morinth baited with an obvious opening Shepard ignored it, recognizing the trap before she stepped into it.

As she returned to an offensive approach, she strained to keep up with Shepard. While possessing weaker biotics, she utilized her entire body, each inch of muscle, possessing a raw physical strength Morinth could not hope match.

Pushed into a corner, she acted on instinct: lifting Shepard up into the air she flung the Commander across the cargo hold, her body skidding against the floor as she slid away. Morinth followed, foot on Shepard's throat before she had a chance to recover.

"It seems I have won," she said, catching her breath as sweat dripped down her neck. The voice of Samara faltered for a second, but then she regained it, all too aware of the dozen pairs of eyes locked on her. Even so, she moved the front of her shoe down the chest, the shirt's white fabric staining and the heel leaving a rip underneath the left breast.

"Seems so," Shepard wheezed as Morinth removed the heel of her shoe from pushing down on her ribs. She coughed once before rising, a deception that served her well: while Morinth relaxed in the false belief that it was over, she swept her legs behind Morinth's and knocked her down. Their positions reversed, Shepard only placed the tip of her naked foot on Morinth's chest, the warm toes curling against the exposed skin. The sharp edge of her toenail scratched the flesh, leaving a scrape where blood welled up in a slow ooze.

Then Shepard flashed a second of that lopsided smile, victorious, taking a step away as she left Morinth to pick herself up from the floor.

"Enough!" Shepard said loudly, commanding the attention of everyone in a snap second. "You all got better things to do than tumbling around down here. Get to it."

She waited for them all to leave until it was just her and Morinth left. She stood by a console, wiping sweat from her brow and idly moving her fingers over the typing interface. As the elevator closed with the last crew leaving, she raised her left hand and activated the omni-tool, sparks flying in several different directions all once.

"You don't have to pretend," Shepard said as she lowered her hand. "They can't see us now."

Relaxing her mouth, Morinth let out a pained gasp – keeping the jaw set so hard in place as Samara did strained her muscles. "You certainly don't trust your employer."

"You did not read the file on Cerberus." Without looking up, Shepard kept on working at the terminal. "The Illusive Man admonished me for losing your supposedly dead body on Omega. He wanted to study you."

Morinth scoffed, unimpressed. "There's nothing new that hasn't already been uncovered by asari scientists."

"I doubt that was what he was after." She paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "They watch my every move, yet they don't know who you truly are. That is an advantage."

"For what?"

Shepard shook her head. "Tactical superiority comes with the smallest things. Cerberus has recorded and noted every move and word I've uttered, but you... You are a black spot on their map of me. I can use that."

"How useful of me." Even though she said it with a sarcastic tone, she liked that rationalizing aspect of Shepard._ For each person a purpose, for each movement a goal_. "It appears you're preoccupied. I'll take my leave."

"Please, stay," Shepard said, scrolling through a lengthy text document on the console.

"Only if you want me."

"I want you_ to stay_," she reiterated.

"Give me a reason."

"If you had forgotten already, I am the one who gives the orders on this ship." A small hint of a smile, quickly suppressed as Morinth circled around the console bench. "Besides, have you ever tried saying please?"

That froze Morinth, and she drummed her fingers against the side of her hip irritably.

Shepard noticed but cared little, eyes rapidly scanning the text.

After a few minutes of silence as Shepard, engrossed in her reading, kept herself too busy to engage in actual conversation with Morinth, the asari grew bored and pulled up her own reading material that she'd gathered from the extranet. Everything one needed to know about Commander Shepard, just a few clicks away, and enough material to occupy her for months if she had the patience for it. Articles and critiques, unauthorized biographies charting the rise of a hero or demon depending on the writer. Eulogies and condemnations, and everything written in such a short time-span – and all unfolding a magnificent story of someone burning too bright. Her life was a mere dot on Morinth's own timeline, and yet...

She opened up one of the highest rated biographies, eyeing through the chapter index._ Childhood and Youth on Mindoir, The Attack on Mindoir, The Recovery on Earth, The Early Alliance Years, The Triumph on Elysium_... Very neat and orderly and perfectly common background for any war hero, yet saying absolutely nothing about the person beyond the actions.

"What are you reading?" Shepard asked.

"About you. The great Commander Shepard. I didn't realize what a legend you were." She closed down the omni-tool. "Did you actually die, or was it just a vanishing act?"

"I died," she said without emotion, as if death came naturally to her.

"Now that I find interesting. Tell me, you who know death intimately, dealing it daily, having gone through it yourself: what does it feel like?"

"Cold," she said casually, wiping a droplet of sweat from her lower lip. "I'm surprised I have to tell you this, considering who and what you are."

"You offer a different perspective. Tell me. What is it like."

Shepard sighed, the noise somewhere between boredom and exasperation. "Death is peaceful. Easier than we think. There is a particular moment we go through each day that mirrors it exactly. The precise point when you drift off to sleep, right on the verge of consciousness... That, right then and there, that is what it feels like to die."

"Sounds blissful."

Shepard grimaced. "Only if you haven't already died."

"There's a poetic quality to it all, if you are inclined to view it as such. I am. Here we have Shepard, a human woman of barely thirty years, putting herself as a shield for the galaxy's greater good." She fixed on the creases of Shepard's lips, a sheen of glistening saliva covering them. How close she had been to kissing those very lips, to taste them, to feel them against her own. "You are the protector, but I am the one you are meant to protect them from."

"How astute."

"Definitions of persons such as ourselves seem arbitrary though, don't they? We strive, constantly changing, and mere labels cannot even come close to what we truly are."

"Every mortal conforms to the bounds they are born within."

"Very few mortals return from death."

"That doesn't make me immortal." Shepard shifted on her feet, suddenly uncomfortable. "Technically, I'm just pushing the boundaries. Eventually they will push back."

"Have some faith in your own greatness."

"Do you call this–" Shepard snapped, hand gesturing at the Cerberus logo plastered on the wall, "–this situation great? Do you even get it?"

Morinth rested her elbows on the computer bench, index finger tapping at her cheek. "When we first met, you spoke of many things to me. Darkness, dangers, that which resonates in both of us. You were burning with passion, consumed by it." She leaned closer, hands sliding across the panel to rest closer to Shepard's, now dormant, ones. "Even before I spoke to you, your presence there was undeniable, a dark hole warping the light surrounding you. Drawing me in before I even knew... That is greatness. Unknowable, untouchable, yet it is there."

"Was that why you tried to kill me?"

"I was merely trying to control the situation, to extract information. You knew so much."_ Too much_, she wanted to add.

"Did I frighten you when I resisted?"

"It's... An anomaly," Morinth admitted. "That intrigues me. You intrigue me."

"Is that reason enough to imbue me with qualities far beyond who I am?" The dance of questions continued, Shepard smoothly diverting and reflecting each pointed word with the skill of a duelist.

Clearly she was going to gain nothing from an indirect approach, and launched straight into demanding a straight answer. "Was anything you said in Afterlife true? Did it matter to you?"

"Do you think it did?" The way Shepard appeared at that moment, pupils wide and lips slightly parted, Morinth began to wonder who was truly the prey and predator between them. It was a situation she had never found herself in before: she was the one to play the games and pull at the strings, but having someone do it to her was… New. Almost exciting.

"What I think…" Morinth said, her fingers touching Shepard's. When they did not withdraw she grew bolder, trailing a path up the arms, circling the soft creases at the inside of the elbow. "Is that control matters too much to you. You can't even let go in a simple conversation."

"Nothing is as simple as that," Shepard murmured, the muscles of her arm flexing under Morinth's hand.

"Have you ever considered letting go? A complete and utter surrender?"

"To what?"

She smiled gently, moving around so that she was positioned without anything between her and Shepard. The heat of their bodies intermingled as Morinth, careful and measured, moved her hands up to Shepard's neck. Touching the collarbones, she leaned close to her ear, lips just grazing the lobe as she spoke. "You have considered it. Giving yourself up to passion, abandoning yourself to it."

Dipping her head down, she drew in deep of the scent: salty, tangy sweat with an undertone of evaporating perfume. "To surrender yourself to something greater than just... This. To let go. To surrender to someone..."

"Morinth..." What was intended to come across as a warning instead faltered, slipping out as a moan when Morinth touched her mouth to Shepard's neck, tongue drawing a lazy circle.

"You know it tempts you."

The moment felt like an exact replication of when they were in the apartment on Omega: just the two of them with a rapidly dissolving surrounding, her suggestion eating away at Shepard's resolve as the eyelids lowered. The thick, light lashes fluttered with each shaky breath she drew. Morinth did not need control of someone's neural pathways to persuade them. She was not a one-trick show; four hundred years lay behind her as a testament to the force she wielded. Four hundred years of being unrepentant, unyielding. She could squash Shepard between her fingers if she truly wanted. "Just a reminder," she whispered, kissing the jaw, laughing as she stepped away. "It's been fun, Shepard."

"Thank you for the company, Morinth," Shepard said, wiping at the saliva staining her throat with the back of her hand. With a swipe of her omni-tool the terminals shut down, and she circumnavigated Morinth but then stopped, digging a folded-up note out of her pocket. "Oh, I nearly forgot about this: a message for you."

On the printed slip of paper, the sender and receiver's addresses were blacked out, but it was clear enough who it was from._ Forward this to your resident asari: I know._

What else could she have expected...

"Your secret is hard to keep."

Nothing infuriated Morinth like having her vulnerable position dangled above her head.

"Tell me," Morinth said, acid lacing each word she uttered, "what happened to your right cheek?"

There was a pause, Shepard's back tensing up as she stood with one foot in the elevator. "You fear death," she said decisively without looking back over her shoulder. "It's why you toy with it, play and fool and cheat around with that dark nothingness, and it's all because you fear it. I am death incarnate to my enemies. Tread carefully."

Morinth crumbled up the note, cutting her palm on the paper's sharp edge.


	5. Chapter 5

"_Destruction, hence, like creation, is one of Nature's mandates._" — Marquis de Sade

* * *

Even centuries later, whenever Morinth laid eyes on a drell – like Thane, with his raspy breath and hands clasped in a quiet prayer – she could not help but think of the massive dry desert of Rakhana. The mere sight of him made her taste the grains of Rakhana's sand.

No matter how tightly she had wrapped the scarf the sand managed to find a way in, filling up her nostrils and getting in her eyes. Each time she spoke there was sand under her tongue, her teeth enamel eroding when she ate.

Rakhana's desert stretched across the entire planet by the time Morinth arrived, sandstorms whipping mercilessly against the cities stranded in the middle of it. The sands shifted constantly, engulfing entire neighborhoods in minutes on windy days. When it rained, the shower was brief but harsh, acidic drops pelting at anyone daring to venture out of shelter. There was a spot on the back of her hand where her skin had been burnt by the rain. A simple, droplet-sized circle that ached for weeks, a branding from the elements to chastise her carelessness.

Rakhana taught lessons on life and death, lessons on obeying the temperament of a planet. Morinth cherished each minute and each pain.

When the sun shone it was relentless, burning the skin with its intensity. At night she ached in bed, the feeling of sheets too much to bear against her flaking skin. She spent many sleepless nights picking and peeling, while outside the sky turned an eerie red tinged with toxic green.

Thane, civil and humble, was a far cry from the drells she encountered in the city ruins. Forty years old, a drop in the ocean of time and generations removed from what they once were. Back then, it'd been no secret that the hanar picked their rescue targets carefully, but even that had been forgotten with how rapidly Rakhana declined into disorder.

She came there during the last year of the evacuation, the days ticking away faster than the remaining drell. Resources were scant and fights over them often turned vicious: she watched entire camps being torn apart by hungry drell who refused to leave their home-world.

Names were not necessary on Rakhana: with a protective scarf covering her face and only the eyes visible, she became known for what traits they could discern._ Ice Eyes_ and_ Blue Arashu_, they whispered behind covered mouths in the nameless cities she prowled, any distinguishing traits eroded by sand. Not even the drell inhabitants could name them anymore, instead gazing up at the sun as they prayed for their shame to be erased.

She travelled in solitude under the guise of searching for those who genuinely wanted rescue, and every fifth day a ship would sweep by with supplies. At first she herded survivors to keep up appearances, but as time went on they dwindled in numbers – not from her lack of efforts, but from the crushing reality of the situation.

Less wanted to leave, and more wanted to die on the soil they'd been born on. Each person that she granted a blissful death, she asked a reason for why they stayed. Most said the same dreary thing, recounting the patriotic nostalgia for a land long since erased by sun and sand, for a family tribe drowned in the shifting dry oceans. Others spoke of the deep shame, of feeling like they had failed their gods with recklessness and that they deserved no second chance. Some who had wandered in the harsh sunlight too long, delirious and frothing at the mouth, spoke only of mistrust and anger.

All of them broke the same way. Their lips cracked as she kissed them goodbye.

The arid heat grew more intense as the year progressed, and she sought refuge in the crumbling buildings, dozing in the shade as she waited for nightfall. As the shadows grew long and the night plunged them into freezing cold, the fires she built easily attracted any nearby drell. They approached without hesitation at first, driven by needs they thought she could sate. As the year went on, they came for other reasons, drawn to her beacons because of their lost hopes, not in spite of them.

A dozen legends built up around her. Some dubbed her _The Merciful Huntress_, a daughter of Amonkira bestowed upon them in their time of wrongdoings. Those who saw her as such faced their deaths at peace, asking her personally for forgiveness. She played along, whispering the adequate words to them in a fragmented attempt at the native tongue.

Still others believed she was Kalahira, arguing that she looked sprung from the ocean, dewy blue skin and softness of the seas in her step. For those, she dripped fresh water rations in their mouths before dealing the final blow. Their death gurgle sounded different as the water soaked into their dehydrated throats. It sounded like a strange call from ages past, garbled words that her translator could not pick up.

There were those who saw past deities and myths, yet they still gave her a mythological title:_ Night Demon_. She liked that story the most since it was reminiscent of the children's horror tales she read when little, describing what she would grow up to be. A cult grew around the demon, altars popping up here and there where they prayed for her to leave them be... Or for her to come and take them away from their mortal vessels. Their prayers amused her, but she lived up to the myths they dressed her in.

She enjoyed a good life, despite the sand and heat and hazardous terrains she traversed. There was always a new person who wanted death at her hand, and again someone else who wanted to touch her hips, kiss her breasts and make her moan. It was, in a way, a vacation from how she normally lived: in the places without names she lost hers, becoming a mere shadow visited by willing victims. She bided her time there, but all good things come to end, and so did her time on Rakhana.

Rumors sprung up in the rescue organization as she failed to bring any drell from her long travels into the remote lands. Small and innocent, maybe, but even such ones could quickly grow out of control. She just chose to leave before they became a problem.

On the last night two sisters approached her, each a reflection of the other in how their vibrant tones patterned the scaly skins. They had survived with no one else but each other for thirty years and they moved with a weight of a thousand hardships in their step, a decided doom in the way they spoke, voices intertwining. Their plea was common, their arms hooked as they leaned on each other for support.

"Take us away from here."

"Please."

"We have sought peace for so long."

"Risked everything for atonement."

"And we can't find it…"

"So end us."

"Please."

She hated them at first, for all that they symbolized. Morinth took no pity on them as she strained herself to fulfill their death wish. There was no obligation, moral or legal, that defined how she needed to go about achieving that end, and she decided to play a game of sisterly love and hate.

Seizing control of one was easy, and calming the other with sweet words even simpler: they seemed conjoined in the mind and heart. If one obeyed, the other did too. If one hurt, the other winced. It'd be a fun way to depart Rakhana.

Yet it was the most unfulfilling game she ever played. For each cruelty she made one inflict on the other, she only felt the queasiness increase, disgust rising up in her own throat. They obeyed, no matter how twisted her face became, no matter how dark the demands she placed on them were. Their servitude and willingness to obey were what frustrated her the most.

She hated them for obeying. She wish they'd fight back.

"Why aren't you fighting me?" she whispered smoothly in one's ear.

"Because we want nothing but what you can give us," the other replied.

"But you're still _alive_."

"You're so young," one said, smiling gently. "Life will teach you one thing: that one day, you too will want it done."

Morinth sneered. "Tear it out." Whispering an order to the one she controlled, she watched as the other parted the clothes covering her chest in preparation. They knew even before it was uttered. "Tear her heart out. For me."

"I will see you across the sea," one said to the other, their voices indistinguishable as they kissed each other's cheeks, the sweltering heat drying the tears before they even fell from their eyes.

Morinth watched – it was all she could do.

There were no screams, just the tearing of flesh and breaking of bones as she worked her fingers through the layers. The sister died just as her heart was laid bare, but as the other was about to tear it out Morinth touched her neck and ended her life. She slumped forward over her sister's dead body, the pool of blood growing larger.

Morinth retreated to the corner and packed her belongings, fitting them all in a small bag before she radioed for immediate extraction. She couldn't tell if her shaking voice was feigned or not, she just knew she had to leave.

The legend of the merciful night demon died with their civilization, the sands erased the last bodies she left behind.

"I saw the fall of Rakhana," Morinth said after an hour of quiet drinking at the Eternity Bar, swiveling a drink in the private booth. The soft music and hard liquor was starting to work its magic on the adrenaline still rushing through her system, and she leaned back in the soft armchair, legs crossed.

"How was it?" Shepard's eyes were closed, head moving in rhythm with the gentle beat.

"Destructive."

"Must have suited you."

"Few places do." They fell quiet again, and nothing else was spoken between them that evening.

Remembering the drell sisters only made her think of Rila and Falere. Knocking back the drink, she breathed through the burning sensation unfurling in her throat, hoping to burn away the memory of her servile and docile sisters.


	6. Chapter 6

"_You will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent the more selfish_." — Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla

* * *

Nos Astra may have been a busy network of streets and buildings, connected by bridges and elevators, but with a very simple layout: the higher up you put yourself, the more credits to your name. Little else spoke on Illium, no matter what the tourist brochures said. Relaxed rules or regulations allowed for a process rarely seen elsewhere, Nos Astra serving as the point where the ugly and wicked came to languish in beauty and splendor. A city to get lost in, over and over, and it just so happened to be Morinth's favorite place to be. Millions of restless souls drawn in by the glittering lights. Millions of hearts, billions of dreams.

A thousand dark corners to dig her fingers into.

She meticulously charted out the lands others came to lose themselves in. In her head she kept mental maps of a hundred cities and a thousand towns, drawing up the streets she'd traversed and places she went, memorizing the layout of clubs, parks, coffee shops, apartment blocks. Nos Astra remained special in how it was arranged, the social layers so palpable, but still the same once the superficial details were peeled back. Each city shared the same basic skeleton structure, but then fleshed itself out differently and above all, how it presented itself. The image one conveyed always went a long distance from the core of what one actually was.

It held as true for cities as it did for people.

An example being Miranda Lawson: a woman built to perfection and it showed in the way she held herself. Morinth finally read all the dossiers Shepard gave her, picking her way through them and taking mental notes. She dismissed many of them as uninteresting, but Lawson kept her fascinated. The human woman oozed confidence and arrogance if only for the simple fact that she was better and knew it. She had a mobility to herself, going from the harsh second-in-command to the brutal combatant in a snap, going in with guns blazing and biotics flaring. In all she did, she was trying to prove her own worth, but to whom Morinth could not quite figure out. The Illusive Man seemed to come close, a distant and overwhelming father figure if there ever was one, holding the rules and boundaries of Miranda's entire world.

It was almost cute how utterly loyal she held herself to Cerberus.

The closer Morinth looked at Miranda, the smaller she appeared and the further she was removed from the the conveyed image. Miranda wanted to appear that she was in complete control with no emotional hooks or hang-ups, but that was far from the truth. Even the Cerberus ice queen began to crack under the threat of something happening to her sister – she became careless in combat, pushing herself too hard. When her shields went down she kept on going, brow furrowed. She marched onwards to fling anyone trying to stop her out of the way, driven by a single-minded determination: to ensure the safety of her younger sister that did not even know she existed. How pointless, and how utterly Miranda. Willing to wade through blood and fire for the ones she cared about.

She did it for Jacob Taylor – as Shepard's notes briefly passed over – and she did it for Shepard. "How easier life would have been for Lawson if she'd managed to keep herself distanced," Morinth said as Lawson left their side at the spaceport terminal, her sure steps crossing to the other side, to reunite with her sister.

"That's something you would know of," Shepard replied. "How's it working out for you?"

"Distance is a savior." She felt a sharp stab of jealousy as Miranda's sister smiled.

Being the demon of the common asari subconscious, Morinth was exempted from a lot of expectations. One could not say Ardat-Yakshi without the last two syllables being uttered in disgust and contempt, harsh as they were on an asari's tongue. No one expected her to care about anything but her own survival, and she was willing to live up to it... To a point. She still thought about her sisters more than she should, carrying them with her like badly healed wounds festering deep in her chest.

Last time she saw Falere and Rila, they lay asleep on the couch in the living room, faces swollen from tears. It had only been seven days since the fateful words in a doctor's office doomed them all._ Ardat-Yakshi_. Until then it had merely been a legend to them, young and unknowing that they even existed still. The first times they tried the word they mispronounced it, making it too soft. Father corrected them, almost angrily, biting back the tears. Mother said nothing, turning her face away to gaze out the window. And Morinth picked up a chair and threw it across the room, screaming.

"So what if we are Ardat-Yakshi? We deserve better than this!" She clutched the kitchen counters. "We're not monsters! We're your daughters! We. Deserve. _Better_."

"Do you?" Samara asked with a tired sigh.

And she screamed again, loud and angry, even as father held her and whispered in her ear – none of those words soothed her. None of them erased the future they were pushing onto her.

They got seven days to prepare. Seven days that proved that one needed very little time to tear apart five lives.

She spent her time comforting her sisters in the first days, adamantly ignoring what the authorities were saying even as they came over and argued with their parents. Father did not want to let them go, aggressive and furious, but Samara... Samara just remained perfectly placid and accepted the judgement bestowed upon her and her daughters.

She hated Samara the most, and it began to blossom viciously as the intense first days of the rest of their lives began. The person who had birthed her, fed her and raised her wanted to lock her away forever because of a genetic irregularity. Because of Samara's genetic predisposition and choices in life, things completely out of her own control, she was sentenced to a life without living. Confinement on a remote and desolate world didn't count as a life worth suffering through, an existence of a thousand years to be _endured_ rather than _enjoyed_.

And hatred sunk its claws into her, dark and vicious, and it nurtured her better than anything else.

She hated the name she carried – Mirala – because it had been bestowed upon her by Samara. As she paced in her room she began to concoct plans and practice in front of the mirror. No one noticed. The family frayed all around her, the parents sleeping in different rooms while Falere and Rila were attached at all times, unable to be pried apart. They were so young, so confused, and she didn't know how to make it right. She wanted to take them along but they were not the same temperament as she was, and she knew they would buckle like they did when sent to camp or away at a friend's for the night: call for mother to come and get them. They loved her even when she was wrong. Even when she was the one dooming them to a thousand year sentence of nothingness. They inherited all the meek and gentle traits, while Morinth came away with the rest – the stubbornness, the determination, the unbending strength.

And she loved them despite how they gave in and gave up, but she couldn't follow them. The way she reasoned, she might as well become the prodigal daughter to finish off the family tragedy in style.

In front of the mirror, she created a new name for herself and put on her mother's face. If nothing else, she could use the likeness to escape Thessia. She siphoned credits from Samara's account and bought a ticket in her name, taking her documentation from the jewelry drawer and a business suit from the back of her closet.

The night she ran, she stood in the living room for a long time. The suit felt wrong on her body, itchy and small whiffs of perfume rising up each time she moved her limbs. She tugged at the sleeves, rolling them up as she kneeled in front of her younger sisters. Falere's favorite vids played on loop, and they lay on the couch, a head at each end with feets nestled at the other's knee. At least in sleep they could find an escape, even if it was just an illusion. Even if that illusion would be shattered by their own mother in a few hours.

She covered them with a blanket and kissed their foreheads, whispering a promise that one day they would all be free together._ That one day..._

Falere's hand flew up to Morinth's, squeezing it, her eyes opening slightly. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere," she said, lying.

"I hate it when you wear mother's clothes," she slurred, burying herself deeper in the pile of pillows. "I can't tell you apart."

"Go back to sleep," Morinth urged, tearing herself away from them.

It hurt, because she loved them. At least, she did back then.

It was the reason she felt a sliver of compassion for Miranda. Not that they could ever sit down and relate, with the facade of Samara keeping Morinth an arm's length away from everyone else but Shepard. She would never be Miranda's friend, nor could she share in the pain. What words were even appropriate for it, for the fury of an elder sister seeking to..._ Protect_.

Morinth groaned inwardly at the mere thought of the word, shrugging it off.

Jealousy seemed more fitting for the occasion than compassion, anyway, especially when Miranda returned Oriana's hug, her little sister a bit taller, less voluptuous, the product of having lived an entirely different life. The family resemblance was there, but Oriana still had an awkward youth about her, smiling wider than Miranda did, her cheeks less full. When Shepard had urged Miranda to go and say hello, Morinth wanted to hold Miranda back. Part of it wanting to not let her have what she couldn't, but the other a somewhat genuine concern. The broken spell of illusion, that estranged sisters never loved you as much as you wished, that they would betray you if given the chance...

Jealousy remained, easier to deal with.

She viewed the renuion from across the terminal, arms crossed as she took slow, measured steps back and forth in front of the bench where Shepard sat reclined. The Commander only cast the odd glance in the direction of Miranda, a thoughtful expression on her face as she removed the suit's gloves and began flexing the fingers. The sound of Shepard cracking her knuckles and joints one by one got on Morinth's nerves and reached her limit when Shepard started again for the third time. She grabbed her by the wrist and held it tightly.

"Stop it," she hissed, voice finally breaking off completely from Samara's.

"Testy, are we?" Shepard commented, but ceased with the knuckle-cracking. "Samara mentioned she had three daughters. Does this remind you of your sisters?" Shepard always went straight for the kill, uninterested in anything but getting to the core of the matter.

"They're far removed from me. What used to bind us is long gone."

"Why did they choose seclusion?"

Morinth almost snapped at Shepard, but then she merely set her jaw, keeping silent.

Shepard cocked her head and thought for a minute. "Or maybe they weren't given a choice. Too old and set in their ways, or too young and unable to conceive of doing anything but obey. You were... Forty-three when you ran, if I remember correctly."

"Forty," Morinth corrected.

"And?"

"You keep pushing until you get what you want, don't you?"

"I'm insistent."

Morinth pushed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, then… "I was the oldest. Rila was twenty-five, and Falere barely twenty. Humans are born, exist and expire in the span it takes an asari to reach the apex of her maiden stage, and we were so very young." She wanted to tell Shepard a little, for some absurd reason she found unable to pinpoint. She loathed exposing so much of herself, but she reasoned that it wasn't a revelation so much as making a point to Shepard:_ there is nothing for you to use here in your little game, just lost causes and sealed-off connections_.

Except Shepard refused to pick up the hint.

"But your condition…"

Morinth cut her off, knowing exactly what would come: _you're genetically predisposed to be murderers. Killers. Your flaw determines your life_. "Our condition is a condition. Nothing more. There are Ardat-Yakshi who serve as commandos, others who are never discovered until they begin to question why they can't have a child. It is the terms upon which we exist: flawed in how we meld. That's it."

"Though the fact remains that you kill each time you do it. You kill, and you draw enjoyment from it."

Morinth smiled. "That is true. I am the extreme outlier, a defining boundary if you will. Circumstance made me what I am, a necessity to survive driving me to this... State."

"Addiction."

Morinth groaned. "I see my mother's words have tainted your view of me. Yes, I do enjoy taking lives, and it has become a recurring event, but I feel no shame about doing what I needed to do in order to survive. Would you have acted any different?"

Shepard smiled. "Depends on what the monastery life is like."

"They wake you before dawn and send you to bed as soon as soon as the sun sets. There isn't a single hour left unaccounted for in the detailed schedule they set up, ushering you from meditation to meal to supposedly meaningful activities. On top of that, they have the gall to call them students. As if that would lessen the humiliation and obscure the truth: they are prisoners."

Shepard was picking the undersides of her nails clean, head bent forward and the blonde hair hiding her face, but her voice still surged with held-back emotions. "That does not sound appealing in the least."

"A severe understatement." Morinth sat down next to Shepard, their thighs touching on the small bench. "This is what I appreciate about you, Shepard. You understand this. The need. We can't bear to have our destinies decided by another."

"Don't start comparing us," she said, though softly, almost teasingly.

"Why? Because you think yourself good and pure, while I am wicked and cruel?"

"Not at all."

On the other side of the terminal, Oriana and Miranda were still engaged in conversation. "That is your doing," Morinth noted. "You have a sway over people."

"So do you."

"Yours is different, but still powerful. There is power in you, and it fascinates me. Does it serve you well?"

"_Power is a means to that end,_" Shepard said, quoting their discussion in Afterlife. "My end."

"You remember. Do you still think about that night?" Morinth shifted closer, her fingers brushing the back of Shepard's neck. "Does it still tempt you?"

"Nothing about that night tempts me. You, however…" Shepard brushed herself off and rose as Miranda came over, tears welling over in her eyes as she shook her head and refused to speak.

Morinth hoped their sojourn on Illium would draw to a close soon. It was tiresome to be reminded, over and over, of what she already knew, and what was already irrevocably lost.


End file.
